


Too Long We Have Tarried, But What Shall We Do for a Ring?

by spuffyduds



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Cock Rings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is embarrassed, Atlantis is perverse, and Rodney is really terribly clever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Long We Have Tarried, But What Shall We Do for a Ring?

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat spoilery warnings:
> 
>  
> 
> The chastity device is totally non-con, although in a strange way since there is no one's intent behind it; it's, er, self-propelling. And Rodney blows past a "stop" in his eagerness to figure out what the hell is going on with the ring exactly.

The really stupid part is, this all happens because the damn thing is _pretty_.

John knows better, he really, really does, especially when they're exploring a new piece of Atlantis. (And yeah, he thought they'd mapped it all out pretty early, but they keep having "this door wasn't here last week, was it?" moments. He's starting to think Atlantis shifts her corridors around when they aren't paying attention, like in that "Cube" movie.)

He really, truly knows better, but when he sees the heavy-looking, plain silvery circlet he doesn't think _Ancient tech, hands off_ , he thinks, jewelry. Nice simple _manly_ jewelry, a cuff bracelet; it would look pretty cool next to his watch. He turns to say, "Hey, lookit this!" to Washington, his exploration-duty Marine for the day, and she says, "Nice." And then he touches it.

And the fucking thing whips itself out straight like a silvery snake and shoots up into his sleeve.

"Fuck!" he shrieks. He swats desperately at that arm and starts yanking his shirt off, and Washington is yelling "What, Colonel, _what_?!?" and waving her gun around but thank god not shooting, and he's got his shirt up over his head but oh fuck, too late, too late, he can feel the thing diving into the front of his pants, oh Christ it's probably some sort of deadly silver leech thing that burrows up your asshole and eats you from the inside out.

He yanks his pants and underwear down together, and Washington's still yelling, and the thing is...not shooting up his ass, the thing has stopped.

It's stopped moving, after it made itself into a closed circle again, around his cock and balls.

John just stands there and stares at it for a minute, waiting to see if it's going to suddenly close up and chop everything off. It doesn't, and he's gonna see if he can slide it off any second now, just--first he's going to breathe a few times, before he touches the damn thing again.

And then it hits him that he's standing there with his pants around his ankles and a sentient silvery cock ring on, in front of Washington, who's gone entirely quiet and is just...looking at his dick.

"Uh," John says. "Sorry?" He makes an abortive gesture toward covering himself, and stops because he's not quite ready to get his hand near that thing again and maybe get it excited and moving.

Washington shakes her head. "This fucking galaxy," she says. "Sir."

"Yeah," John says.

 

He makes it for five weeks before he finds himself knocking on Rodney's door late one night.

Rodney opens it and says, "Well thank god," and John blinks at him.

"Are you finally going to tell me what is wrong with you? Because you have been clearly nuts about something for a month. You're driving everyone crazy. _Teyla_ said you were pissing her off. I didn't even know she knew that word."

John laughs, a strangled little cough of a laugh, and says, "Sorry, I--I've been distracted."

"No kidding," and Rodney makes a little get-on-with-it motion.

"So," John says, and sits in Rodney's desk chair. Might as well get comfortable; this is going to take a while. "You know how new corridors are always turning up out of nowhere?"

 

When he finishes the how-it-got-on part of the story, Rodney sits down heavily on his bed, whistles. "Wow," he says. "So, any aftereffects? It didn't, I don't know, sting you or anything? How'd you get it off?"

"That's the thing," John says. He closes his eyes and waves vaguely toward his crotch.

"Oh, Christ, you didn't?" Rodney says. "It's still--that--oh, god, Sheppard, you have had a cock ring on for five weeks? You can't--that's not..."

And that's interesting, because John didn't use that term when he was telling it, didn't say "cock ring," but Rodney went right there, and knows the safety rules, and that's...

That's John getting distracted, which happens all the time this days, and he needs to focus here, dammit, because Rodney has gone quiet and very, very pale.

"John?" Rodney almost whispers. "Is there _damage_? Gangrene?"

"Oh god no," John says quickly, and Rodney blows out a sigh, leans back against the wall. "It's not like that, it's not actually tight except some, ah, particular times. Mostly it's just there, not hurting, I can wash and everything. But if I try to take it off it starts tightening, and tightening, and it starts to hurt and it doesn't stop until I stop trying."

“Jesus,” Rodney says, and rubs his face with one hand, and then John can see him shifting into problem-solving mode, which, _yes please_.

“Okay,” Rodney says, “I assume you’ve tried the obvious ‘la la la just washing here’ and suddenly trying to yank it off.”

“Repeatedly. With bad, bad results. It’s pretty damn quick at catching intent.”

“Hmmm. Have you tried anything else? Bring anybody else in on it?”

“Well, Carson. He did every kind of test he could think of, no answers, he couldn’t budge it either. He tried,” John winces, “lots of different tools.”

“Ouch,” Rodney says. He’s staring thoughtfully at John’s crotch, which in a different context would probably be getting John a little worked up, but right now it’s just reassuring--with Rodney’s brain working on this, it’s _got_ to get solved eventually, right?

“Turn up anything else interesting in the room?”

“Yeah, I put a research team on it--didn’t tell ‘em _why_ , of course. Word got around, it wouldn’t exactly enhance my command presence, you know? I did tell them to be extra careful, though. Didn’t want any repeats. Anyway, nobody knows but you and Carson and Washington, and Carson’s got the whole doctor/patient secrecy thing and, Washington, well, I _begged_ her not to tell anybody, and she’s a good kid. And you. Well.” And John, incredibly, finds himself blushing. He’s sitting here talking about being attacked by a living sex toy, no problem, but he’s blushing at the very thought of saying something like, “And I know _you_ won’t tell anybody because you’re my friend.”

Rodney, thank god, does a _yes yes I get it_ wave, and John rushes on. “There were other pieces of metal jewelry in the room, but none of them came alive. And there some descriptions and instructions on holographs, but of course the bit about mine was garbled. The other ones, though, seems like they were more standard jewelry, little earrings and bracelets.”

“Little?”

“The team got some of the linguists and sociologists in on it, and yeah, they think the bracelets were intended for newborns, kind of a ‘yay you’re here’ thing, and the earrings were for teenagers.”

“Huh,” Rodney says. “Maybe some kind of a ‘now you’re a man’ symbol? Or a woman? For some ceremony like a bar or bat mitzvah?”

John shrugs. “Possible.”

Rodney gets up and paces, running his hand through his hair. “So, maybe everything in that room was to celebrate milestones, big life events. Maybe the Ancients did cock jewelry for, I don’t know, whatever their equivalent of drinking age was? You whip out your dick to get into bars? Maybe,” he spins around and points excitedly at John, “Maybe it was for getting married.”

“I don’t think,” John says weakly, “that it would work out really well for marriage.”

“Huh?” Rodney says, and John drops his face into his hands. He so, so does not want to talk about this.

“What are you not telling me?”

“It’s...trying to take it off is _one_ of the times when it tightens up but it also--” John takes a deep breath, another one, and manages, “It won’t let me come.”

“It--” Rodney says. “It--it won’t--five _weeks_?”

“Yep.”

“Sheppard. My _god_.”

“Yep.”

“How often do you usually--”

“A _lot_.”

“You must be _dying_.”

“Yep.”

Rodney sits back on the bed and just gives him a horrified stare for a minute, then says, “Wow, no wonder you’ve been cranky. God, I think I’d snap after five _days_. I mean, sometimes when we’re on missions, it makes me crazy after just a couple days, in that tent with you and no privacy...”

He trails off, and he keeps just looking at John for a few seconds too long after that sentence, and something shifts, something in the air gets even weirder than it was before. Because that--”in that tent with you”--did he just mean no privacy or did he mean it made him more crazy because it was _John_ , did he--was he--

John shifts a little on the seat and damnit, damnit, he’s getting hard thinking about what Rodney maybe meant and he can feel the fucking thing waking up, stirring a little around his cock, just waiting to clamp down if he gets anywhere near a second of relief.

John drops his head back heavily against the chair and moans. He can’t help it.

“John? Are you okay?”

“I’ll just. I’ll go back to my room and you sleep on it and maybe you’ll have some great idea in the morning, right?” John stands up and tries to head for the door, but Rodney grabs him by the upper arm, and just that contact, the heat of Rodney’s hand and the strength of his grip and John’s fully hard, heavy and aching.

He groans and leans into Rodney. That doesn’t help.

“John, come on,” Rodney says, and his mouth is too close and his breath is hot against John’s ear and John shivers. He’s not far from _crying_ , Jesus.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rodney says. “You’re not going anywhere. Sit.”

John groans and drops onto the bed. And he's been keeping everything under control for so long, keeping a tight lid on it, that now being with someone who knows--he can't even keep sitting up, he rolls onto his side and just curls up and moans.

"We have got to fix this," Rodney says.

"That'd be good," John manages.

"Okay okay," Rodney says, and starts pacing again. "Let's think."

"I can't think. I can barely breathe."

"I'll pick up your slack," and Rodney gives him a little grin. "I'm used to it."

"Ha," John says. He's starting to sweat. Maybe, given the state he was already in, lying down in a bed that smells like Rodney was a bad idea.

Rodney suddenly stops pacing, snaps his fingers. "Skin!" he says.

"Uh?"

"Has anyone else made bare-skin contact with the thing?"

"No, Carson was gloved up. We were afraid it would just transfer to _him_ if he touched it."

"Hmmmm. Valid concern." Rodney rubs at his chin for a minute, smiles. "When it jumped you--you had on your usual baggy boxers, right?"

" _Hey_ ," John says weakly, but after all those shared-tent nights it's not really a surprise that Rodney has information and opinions on his underwear. "Yeah."

"Stay right here."

"Not a problem."

Rodney rummages through his dresser for a minute, then disappears into the bathroom.

John takes deep breaths, and maybe it starts out as trying to calm down, but after the first few he's got to admit that he's just getting lungfuls of the good-smelling sheets. He rolls onto his stomach, and even knowing what the results would be, it's all he can do not to hump the mattress.

Rodney walks back in, and John gathers up the strength to lift his head and bursts out laughing, the first full-on laugh he's had in weeks, because Rodney's wearing--

"A _wetsuit_!?"

"Thick, tight, rubbery, a perfect defense," Rodney says, with wounded dignity.

"Why do you even _have_ \--"

"Remember, back before this thing made you into an angry crazy person, you kept talking about teaching me to surf?"

"Oh," John says. Wow, that had to--he can't even imagine the favors Rodney must have called in to get something that nonessential sent up from Earth. Or maybe he bartered one of the Marines something for it. Either way, it's bizarrely touching.

Rodney's turning a little pink. "Okay, Sheppard," he says. "Pants off."

"McKay, you say the sweetest things," John says, but his mouth is going dry.

He rolls onto his back and unzips his pants, slides them and his boxers down his hips a little. His cock springs out, hard and aching. He can't look at Rodney's face.

"Okay," Rodney says, "I'm going to touch the...the thing now."

John takes a deep breath and waits for--whatever's going to happen.

Not much happens. Rodney touches the ring, and that's it.

And then Rodney gives it a quick tug, and it _tightens_.

John yelps and curls violently upward; Rodney lets go, backs away.

"Sorry, sorry," Rodney says. "I was hoping just someone else touching it would deactivate it, or it would try for me and I could grab it while it was trying to figure out the wetsuit. And when that didn't work I thought maybe I could take it off since you wouldn't know I was going to try, so _it_ wouldn't know--"

"Ow," John says weakly.

" _Sorry_. I guess my Ancient gene is enough to let it know what I'm up to, even though mine’s artificially activate. Hey, maybe we could get someone who doesn't have the gene turned on at all to try it."

" _No_."

"Right," Rodney says. He sits down on the bed at John's feet, curls a hand awkwardly around John's left ankle. It's probably meant to be reassuring, but it just puts John back on the arousal curve. Jesus, probably Rodney breathing in the same room with him would do it, at this point.

John ought to pull his pants back up, zip himself back in. But the idea of putting that pressure back against his aching dick--fuck it, Rodney's seen everything, it's not like this could be any _more_ embarrassing.

"Marriage," Rodney mumbles, staring at the opposite wall. "Or not. What would it be _for_ what would it be for, they had reasons for everything even if they were crazy reasons. Maybe it was for people who took a vow of celibacy."

"Oh god," John says.

"That would be bad, yes. Or, wait--" Rodney turns toward him.

"I don't guess anybody else has...touched anything else in the area either," he says.

John raises himself up on his elbows and glares at Rodney. "Why would you think that, McKay?" he says. "Hey, I've been taking everybody home from the bars! 'Come on, person I work with in a ridiculously small town where everybody hears about everything! Let's fuck! Pay no attention to that metal thing, but make sure you don't touch it!'"

"Sarcasm is not necessary," Rodney says, a little huffily.

John flops back flat on the mattress. "No, but sometimes it's fun."

"So...when it's stopped you coming, it's always been, um. By your own hand."

John stares at the ceiling. "By my own hand," he says bitterly. "By humping my own mattress. By strategically aiming my own shower jets. By not touching a damn thing and thinking about it really, really hard. By almost having a wet dream, which you’d think maybe I could get away with, but the pain woke me up. And once," he's dying to look at Rodney now but Rodney's breathing has gotten kind of fast and loud through this recitation so maybe that's a bad idea, "once rubbing up against a running washer in the laundry room."

 

"Ew."

"I was desperate! It was late, there was no one there," he says, and adds sulkily, "I would have cleaned up after myself if it had worked."

"God, I hope so." Rodney clears his throat, and scoots a little closer on the bed. "I'm going to try something now," he says.

"Anything," John says, "Anything," and he means it, but he still almost jumps off the bed in surprise when Rodney puts a warm hand, not on the cock ring, but on his cock.

"Oh god," John says, "ohhhh god, that feels good, that feels so good, you need to stop, you need to stop right now, it's just gonna hurt, please."

But Rodney doesn't stop touching him, in fact Rodney starts moving his hand, and fuck, fuck, John's so wired and so deprived and it's Rodney, John's gonna be right at the edge in a few seconds and the edge is where the pain is, the pain and the _savage fucking disappointment, AGAIN_.

"Rodney," he whimpers, "are you trying to kill me, what, what are you doing, I told you, I can't come, it won't let me--"

And then his brain whites out, but it's not from pain, it's because, oh holy god, he's coming.

And coming and coming. And he just keeps coming. He gets some on his chin. He doesn't care.

Finally, finally he's done, lying there completely limp, staring at the ceiling again. He likes Rodney's ceiling a lot more than he did a few minutes ago. He likes everything in the universe a lot more than he did a few minutes ago.

"Wow," he finally manages, and waves one hand slowly at Rodney. His hand looks kind of stoned. "You're magic," he says.

"No," Rodney says. "I just thought about it from a different angle. I think maybe it _is_ for something like a wedding ceremony, but it's not meant to keep you from coming, just to keep you from masturbating."

"Smart smart Rodney. Magic," John says. He's slurring a little, and he scoots over when Rodney stretches out next to him. Rodney's really warm, it's nice.

"Of course," Rodney says, "we need to work out what your other options are. Maybe it'll let itself be removed now. Or maybe the Ancients had, I don't know, octuple marriage and it'll let seven different people bring you off but clamp down on you if you try to go over the magic number. Who the hell knows, but we should figure that out."

John doesn't want to figure anything out; he feels like his whole body is made out of some kind of warm happy soup. A soup he ate when he was a kid and everything was fine. Campbell's chicken noodle, maybe.

He rolls to his side and throws an arm over Rodney's chest, and he lets out a deep breath; it feels like the first time he's breathed out all the way in weeks, and he's just on the edge of sliding off into sleep, doesn't even care that he's all sticky, and then it hits him oh Christ he's sticky because Rodney just _jerked him off_.

His body tries to tense back up but it just can't after all that relief. His brain does though, it tenses up a lot.

He picks his head up--when did his head end up on Rodney's shoulder?

"Um," he says. "Is this weird?"

Rodney blinks at him a couple of times, then says, "I was going to be sarcastic and say nooooo, dealing with sentient cock rings is _perfectly normal_ , but honestly, compared to some stuff Atlantis has thrown at us, it kind of _is_."

"No, not that," John says, "or--not _just_ that--I mean, me coming to _you_ for, for help, for--this." He swallows hard and says, "I can do what you said, investigate other options, see if it'll come off now." And before he can think about it too long he grabs the thing and goes for it, and nope, it clamps downs just like usual and he lets go, drops his hand back onto Rodney's chest--fuck it, he's doing that as long as he can get away with it--and pants through the pain until it fades out.

"So, no on that one," Rodney says.

"Yeah," John says. "But I can--see if it'll work with anybody else. It's not fair--you shouldn't have to--"

"John," Rodney says. "I don't mind."

"You don't mind?"

"I really, really don't mind," Rodney says, and he's a good enough friend that he would probably say that even if he _did_ mind, but the goofy grin he's got is more convincing than the words; fuck, he _really_ doesn't mind.

John grins back. "I don't mind either," he says.

"I'm sure _you_ don't," Rodney says. "You were _desperate_ ," and he's still smiling but John can't leave that idea out there, just can't.

"Didn't go to anybody else, did I?" he says softly, and Rodney's smile gets wider and he's blushing. And then John realizes that he's being a tool, here, and says, "Hey, what about you--what can I do for you?"

"Ah," Rodney says. "You, um, don't need to. You were--jerking you off was very--I'm fine."

"Jesus, Rodney, in a _wetsuit_?"

"Yes, yes, okay, in the wetsuit, and it's squashy and weird and I have no idea how to _clean_ the damn thing," Rodney says huffily.

John can't help it, he giggles, and Rodney swats him on the head. "At least take it off before it gets glued to you," John says.

Rodney grumbles off to the bathroom and John takes the opportunity to shuck the rest of his clothes off. He thinks the lights a little lower, and glares down at the cock ring in the dimness. "Do _not_ think this means I'm _okay_ with you," he says. "Temporary truce until Rodney figures out a way to get rid of you," but really, it's hard to be too pissed off at the thing when it made him end up here. If he's honest with himself, he probably would never have gotten up the courage to make a move on Rodney, otherwise.

Rodney comes back in and gets in bed, and John dims the lights all the way so he can wrap legs and arms around him without having to look him in the face.

"Oh, great, you're an octopus," Rodney says, but he's throwing an arm around John's waist and pulling him closer while he says it.

John takes a deep breath and leans in and then they're kissing; he's come all over the guy's hand before he ever kissed him, welcome to the fucked-up Pegasus galaxy. Rodney's mouth is wide and warm and enthusiastic, and the kiss goes on for a long time. If he hadn't just had an epic record-breaking orgasm, John would probably be getting hard again.

"So you'll come to me whenever you need it, huh?" Rodney murmurs.

"Mmmyeah."

“Guess you don’t have much _choice_ ,” Rodney says, and kisses him again, and John can feel when Rodney's lips curve into a smile against his own.

"Sheppard?" he says.

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes you're gonna have to _beg_ ," Rodney says, and John gasps. And fuck now he _is_ getting hard again, cock twitching against Rodney's thigh.

"Interesting reaction," Rodney says smugly.

"You're a _dick_ , McKay," John says and rolls away, onto his back.

But when Rodney's fingertips trace lightly down his cock, stroke his balls and move lower, John spreads his legs and says, "Yeah."

\--end--


End file.
